Monday, December 23, 2013

Sovereign Once Again @The Monday Echo


 Sovereign Once Again's first airing gets a good response at the Monday Echo Dec 9th




Friday, November 22, 2013

Jaundiced

Sarajevo visions
informer ditches
any forgiveness
in these Monaghan hills?

Liver fatigue
no place to go
morphine desire
in these Monaghan hills

Country west violence
lake acid stillness
aching to drink
in these Monaghan hills

Bleakness and starkness
flashes of beauty
longing for love
in these Monaghan hills

Kavanagh how are you
barbs and booze
full of bravado
in these Monaghan hills

Negative equity
load a syringe
they're hanging from trees
in these Monaghan hills

Where's that dog?
not where he's wanted
roaming the fields
in these Monaghan hills









Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Good Stock

It's funny being of the age
Where you meet people's sons
And end up washed
In waves
Of  bonhomie
Whiskey
Then you think back
To your parents
Going on
Ah he's from good stock
And you
You would spew
How fucking Nazi is that!

Friday, November 15, 2013

Sovereign Once Again


The Irish Times
Of Friday November 15th
Just told me
Over Annaghmakerrig tea
We'll be sovereign again
Sovereign again
So I took to the bike
Without precaution
Or credit
And I took to the hills
Where houses were boarded
Dogs barking
And pubs all closed
Village after village
Pubs were all closed.
And finally in Cootehill
In the county of Cavan
I sat for a pint
Where Charlie the taxi-man
Leaned forward
And said
A fierce amount had taken to the rope
Taken to the rope
Taken to the rope
Dangling from
Troika trees
And yet others had gone to the bottom of
Many the lake
Many the lake
Many the lake
So I swallowed my pint
Got back on my bike
Looked up the trees
Stared down the lakes
And cried out
At the top of my voice
Time after time after time again
For God's sake come back
Please Lord just come back
Do you all not know
We'll be sovereign again
Sovereign again
Get the fuck up
And out of those graves
We'll be ...
Sovereign Once Again

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Annaghmakerrig

Wind howl tranquillity
blowing
the sheer beauty
of Brendan Cleary's
poems of love
and death.

How he so deftly dances
between the two.
Then there he is in the kitchen
talking lost love and new bets
over fresh baked scones.

And I
I sit here alone.
Without a horse to ride.
Or a woman
to back.

Monday, October 28, 2013

The Mask



I asked him to take off the mask
Cos it was just too scary.
Like a death door being swished open
By white-gloved concierge
All in the most chivalrous of manners
Everything so terrifyingly polite.
Then he smiled and asked
'Kevin, what mask?'
Talk about 

Going gently 
Into the night.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Bring Bank

I want to be your Bring Bank
That's all I want to be

I want to be your Bring Bank
So you can come to me
Discarded

You can come to me
Shattered

You can come to me
In pieces

Cos I want to be your Bring Bank
That's all I want to be

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

THERE'S A SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE

(For Eileen, Nancy and Marie Barrington)

I used to have three aunts
Now I have none
Not one.

Not a single spirited spinster left
To people those Tralee to Dingle
Hair-pin nights
Full of Harvey wall banger hillman impish tales.
Treacherous bends always leading to perfidious Albion.
And finally
Oliver.
Always Oliver.
Then with Cromwell cursed
Rousing choruses of West's Awake
Puttering into Ballyferriter roaring Blasket sound

Stopping off in O Cathain's for the one drink
Or the dozen
The bar packed
All drinking the syphillitic shillings from Haughey's island
Our King, our Berlusconi, our Napoleon
But no Elba for that Chieftain
That Royal Republican
Now you’re talking
Talking furious words
Crossing the Guinness border
Dumping the Bearla
Digging up the Crested Ten
Preparing the Red Breast.
Words as gaelige
Sharp as pikes
That no clock would mute
And no-one would call time on.

I used to have three aunts,
Now I have none.
Gone
Gone
Gone
Those glorious Edwardian feminists
All Percy French Germaine Greer Father Murphy
Not one of the three ever missing the chance
To set heather blazing.

I hope you are starting to get my point
I used to have three aunts
Now I have none
How much more proof does one need?
That there is a fucking serial killer on the loose
And the weird thing is
I just can't seem to get anyone to care.

And even I
-never short of a phrase or two -
Don't have the words
Within me
To talk about
Whom
I
Think
He
Has
His
Eye
On
Next
.
There is a serial killer on the loose.
I used to have three aunts.

Now I have none.

















Van Gogh Is Such A Sneaky Painter - A little treatise on US-European Relations



VAN GOGH IS SUCH A SNEAKY PAINTER


(Electric Picnic Sept 2013)
Terrified
I
Stood
As the loud young American
poked.
Jabbed
Finger
at
Arles tree
"See"
Jab
Sweat
"See"
Relentless.
Museum surreal
No guards
No alarms
NOT YET
Don't mess with art.
In France.
Panic.
"Yes"
I say
"Yes"
I acknowledge
"I do"
"YES"
Phew.
Satisfied.
He turns.
With
Order Has Been Restored
Certainty

But
There will be no confusion.
No ambiguity.
So still gesticulating
at trembling canvas.
He smugly mouths
to Kevin shivering in cultural conflict
High Noon Sun
'Van Gogh is such a sneaky painter.'

'Van Gogh is such a sneaky painter.'
Sneaky.
Indeed.
Yank
in Jeu De Paume
No-one's fool.

Order under attack
So many decadent tropes.
God
damn
that
Dutch
Jihadi
The
duplicity
of this
Old Europe.
Give me
Iwo Jimo
for
Art

The
New American Century
Will not be
Subverted
By
Tricks
by
Spot the hidden faces in the Arles trees 

Sneaky sneaky sneaky.
Very VC Charlie
Poor Van Gogh
Sneaky sneaky sneaky.
Very surrender monkey
Poor Van Gogh

Poor poor Vincent
Poor Van Gogh

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

WARMING UP THE AUTUMNAL CHILL WITH ELECTRIC WORDS AT THE PICNIC

Reading 'What Chance Of A Sign Of The Spring?' on The Word Stage early Friday night at the Electric Picnic
Pix: Anne Moran



Wednesday, July 17, 2013

CLAM



'Pretty Puddy Cats' by Gary Coyle


Fell in love with a cat
Nobody told me she was a clam
She was Tom and Gerry all in one
But nobody told me she was a clam
She didn't slink away in a backyard embrace
Down among the trash bags
No clawed polythene
No cracked eggshells
No pierced teabags
No
She just closed down



Get Clam and all the other dramatic pieces of verbal and visual work in the critically acclaimed collection of digidelic delight 'I Love The Internet' here: http://itsapoeticalworld.com/book-shop/

Sunday, July 14, 2013

BRINGING THE OW TO ME





JUST A MAN GETTING AGITATED ABOUT WOMEN AND CAT



Pop over and check the bleak output of March. We had hostile weather. We had genocide. And we had cats. And now just to add some panache to joyous gloom, we got some groovy gloomy spooky cats from artist Gary Coyle. He's bringing a whole of OW to ME feline foostering 

Sunday, June 9, 2013

VILLAGE MAGAZINE PROFILES I LOVE THE INTERNET

This is rather charming.
And doubly so coming on top of news that the Dalkey gig is a sell out.
If you can, please do buy a copy of the actual magazine.
It's worth it and it merits support.





Friday, June 7, 2013

WHERE IS MY HEAD?

That bug eyed shrunken skull perched on my shoulders
You know the one
The junkie rodent looking one
Yep.
Of course you know.
Well
That's not me
Seriously
Yeah. I know.
Sounds like a yarn
But you gotta believe me
You just gotta believe me
I have known that head inside out for 51 ill-remembered dull vital
wonderful hellish always complicated years
All those years in my head
OK OK OK
All those years out of it.
Out of it.
Well not out if it
Not out of that
Not out of that head
I was out of my head.
In fact I was so out of my head,
So out of my head I can tell you what it looks like in great detail
With senior counsel eat your wig pot bellied port baritone accuracy
The head that's there is not the one that should be there.
Now don't get agitated with me
I'm the one who is rightly agitated.
And this is what I have been trying to tell you
All
If you
All
Would only just listen


I know
My head
And that's not it!
Do you hear you me?
That is not my fucking head
No way.
Perhaps it does belong to Jose
But it's sure not Kevin's








Fishy looking head by Conor Ferguson

Well.
Well
Not
Unless
Unless
The
Head
Shrinkers
Got
Me
Hmmmmm
Head shrinkers?
Good try
But
No
That's a no go
Listen I sure ain't been to Borneo recently
For Christ's sake I don't even know how to get to me

Could have been snared by one of the couch wielding Californian tribe
The druids of the West Coast sun worshippers
They did make a move
Back in the day
Collecting shiny mirror shards of
Mortality outrunners
Rollerblading into their own meth shadow
As tears streamed down the no valium dawn
With incoming Boeings, whining Airbus death
And outgoing Bushes chasing die-hard wmds

Yes the Californians sprung their sincere spoken trap
And I offered them suicide
In return
In spades
A bloated fool of a general
There I was
Leading the camels into my own Tahrir
But despite all I kept my head together
And somehow crawled out of the pepper spray night
And tweeted my way on to a new compromised day.

Here I am.
Now
Leafy Dublin 6.
Wrapped in child laughter luxury
N'er a mortar clump to be heard for miles
And what did I do?
Yeah
Made it back to friendly lines
And I went and lost it
Lost my head

So now I am neck deep in morphine trying to deal with the pain
The worry
The endless angst
Does it have a good body?
Hey
Does it have a good home?

And what if it prefers the new body to me?
Jesus wept
I hadn't even thought of that yet.

I would go out and look for it
But for this nagging issue
And perhaps it is bugging me more than it is bugging you

ACTUALLY IT IS BUGGING ME WAY MORE THAN IT IS BUGGING YOU
BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT
I SO DESPERATELY NEED TO KNOW
WHO OWNS THE RAT LIKE SKULL ON MY SHOULDERS
WHO SAYS HE'S RUNNING THE SHOW

If you recognise him, please let me know.
You can contact me in the comments section below


Saturday, May 25, 2013

The End Of The Road With Jack Kerouac


Clackety
Clack
Jack
Don't look back

Those dreams
Of
Denver
Are
Getting
Fierce
Dim

Ah
Man
It's
Time
Time
Time

Time
You know
We
Both
Gotta
Blow

Blow blow blow
No no no

Yes
I'm
Afraid


Scared
Petrified
Terrified
God damn it
Man
We're
HittinThe End

Coast to coast
Gasoline defiance
Jazz fumed
With the radio on
In love with the modern world
Always with the radio on
Beaming 24 Dean
Yappin yappin yappin
Jaw chewing
Non stop neon

Can't catch us
Can't catch us

We're on the road
We're on the road

The
Wide
Open
Road

Hurtling
Towards
The
Inevitable
End

But we out ran them all.
All.
Every last one of them
Didn't we Jack!
Showering their murderous Korean piety
In reefer brake squeal exhaust

The dreams
We dreamed
We lit
Alight
Dash dial guzzling
Bright
Hep Cat
Night
Zoooom zoooom
Yeah Yeah Yeah
Oooh shit
Feds on our tail
Time to bail

The boat to Tangier
The first whiff of fear


So
Farewell
Jack
Farewell
Kerouac

We've
Just
Run
Right
Outta
Right
Outta
Right
Outta
Road


Friday, May 24, 2013

FIRST FULL REVIEW OF I LOVE THE INTERNET FROM ITASPOETICALWORLD.COM

Review – “I Love the Internet” by Kevin Barrington

Someone once said that having the confidence to publish a book is like going after Moby Dick in a rowboat and taking the tartar sauce with you.
It was with this, no doubt shut away at the back of her mind that C. Flower of Political World entered the world of online publishing with the launch of ‘I Love the Internet’ a contemporary and abrasive poetry collection written by Dubliner, Kevin Barrington.
Prompted by the discussion and submission of poems to the political discussion forum, Politicalworld.org, and pushed along by the decision of Declan Ganley to threaten the author with legal action concerning disagreements on twitter, it was suggested that Kevin might respond to this threat in a creative riposte ( and help to cover possible future legal fees) by putting together a collection of his best work.
At this point, Kevin grabbed the ball and ran with it, and pulling together a team of artists and photographers, with C. Flower as editor and publisher and Ephilant as e-booker, turned that notion into a reality.
But make no mistake, C. Flower, who first suggested the project, would not have done so had she not believed that Kevin’s mastery of words and grasp on the workings of the world around him, were worthy of the effort required to bring the project to fruition.
It was worth the effort all right; Kevin Barrington’s words do not jump off the page, they hurtle towards you as if fired from the barrel of a Barrett Light 50. But a scattergun it isn’t! Kev’s relentless tirades will hunt you down, find you and riddle you with politics, philosophy, the force of literature and a very generous helping of humour.
Right through, ‘I Love the Internet’, the reader is reminded of modernity and it feels contemporary and yet it nods openly back at the art of yesterday and without fear of taking on either the ancient or the new. Similarly, Kevin Barrington knits together the parochial and the global and kicks the living daylights out of both and still for all that, there is a tender appreciation of family, tight but not always smooth, which permeates the extremities, should you care to look for it.
Barrington’s poems are not designed to wash gently over the reader; they angrily tumble down the page but always in a controlled enthusiasm. Yes, even the nice ones. Who would have thought that the humble moggy in ‘Clam’ could fire such brash emotion? That’s not to say that Kevin can’t turn on the detail when required as can be seen in the gnarled politics of ‘Cambodia’s Rock Star King’, a piece riddled with experience which oozes with the author’s undoubted knowledge of the subject.
This collection is not for comfort reading and nowhere is that more obvious than in the painfully personal ‘Interference’ where we are led to believe we are voyeurs but where in truth, we are simply being shown what could be around the corner for ourselves or our loved ones.
So what’s my favourite poem in ‘I love the Internet’? Well I’m drawn to the curtness and comical abandon of ‘Social Media’, ‘Crack’ and ‘Laughter’ but for me, these just set the reader up for the disturbing and viciously circling masterpiece which is, ‘Daddy’s Cooking Crystal Meth in the Barna Shed’. We all have a Barna Shed.
Above all, the fight in Kevin’s written word comes across as genuine, borne out of his love for language, his personal battle with illness and his utter inability to shut his mouth for much over eleven seconds. Barrington’s book is about more than just words, set in an attractive suburb of fine art and photography, it’s as varied and as vivid on the eye as it is on the ear.
‘I Love the Internet’ will not be the only book which Political World Publishing will release, already several other projects covering literature, history and politics have been commissioned. In a time when franchises, corporate creations and the ghost-written ramblings of incoherent, soon to be fading celebrities dominate the world of publishing, maybe, just maybe, the time is right for a small house like pw to just jump in there and demand its tuppence-worth before the conglomerates choke all resistance.
You gotta love the internet.
vince2


I love the Internet by Kevin Barrington is published by Political World Publishers and the whole  bucket of lunacy is available from our e-bookstore, priced at €5.00.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

HOW DID STONE AGE MAN CUT THE NAIL ON HIS TOE?

Things were getting pretty bleak there in March
Felt a bit like
Prepare to meet your maker
And all that jazz
And sure what can you do?
Spit punk rage
With a touch of Sam B
Then go with the flow
The end of the show
Curtains
Call Massey
Died in his prime
Sad
Tragic
Such a terrible shame.
Until finally deep inside, someone said
No
No Kevin
No
No
No

Not going nowhere
Not until I know
This one last thing
I just gotta know
Before I go

Cool
So come here
And tell me
Tell me right now

How did Stone Age man
Cut the nail
On his toe?

Do you know?

Do you?

Do you?

Do you?

Friday, May 17, 2013

I'M IN REAL BAD NEED OF SOME REAL GOOD RELIGION

Anyone know of any good religion?
Would you please keep an ear out for some good religion?
Cos I'm in the market for some good religion.

In fact, I'm in bad need of some really good religion.
And Jesus that's telling the truth.
And I also mean it when I say 'really good religion'
I don't want any of that messy interfere with children religion
I don't want no kiss no bishop's ring religion either
But fuck me!
I am in the market for some pure liberation.
I'm a sure sales sucker for some high grade theology
Hit me now
I am crying out for a little top drawer religion
Uncut!
You hear me!
I don't want your adulterants
In fact, I don't need your cathedrals
I sure don't need your sacraments
And I won't be wearing those robes
But can I make it any clearer?
I
Want
Some
GOD
DAMN
Theology
THEOLOGY
NOW
Yeah.
Sure.
The sunshine helps
It really really really does.
And for that I am eternally grafeful.
Oh but you have no idea how a little bit of pure theology would be real nice too.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
A little high mercury 8mm Robinson's Barley salty ham dam bursting bouncey castle cousins rounders sorta theology.
That sorta theology!
You know exactly the sort of theology I mean.
Just a little little little little little bit of that
A little bit
A little hit
of
that
Sweet
RELIGION.
Then
All
Will
Be
Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever Ever
So
Dandy
For
A
While

Thursday, May 16, 2013

I LOVE THE INTERNET/ READING/DALKEY BOOK FESTIVAL/CORNER NOTE CAFE

I'll be doing a gig at the Dalkey Book fair, June 15th 5pm at the Corner Note Cafe where I will be reading and talking with legendary literary agent Ivan Mulcahy. I am told that some other foreign correspondent is looking for a little limelight. Some geezer called Robert Fisk. Whoever he is. Then there's some writer who seems to be robbing most of my identity. Kevin Barry. Should have taken that lad out at 18 summers. Some other pokey nosed journo and bugger of bugging presidents called Carl Bernstein. There's an Anne Enright. She rings a bell. But jesus - your head would be wrecked keeping with all this crew. They all write things.

On the subject of writing things and wrong things, listen to me growl.

Listen to me bitch.

Just wasted 40 quid entering some Fish poetry competition judged by Paul Durcan.

Some crew with obviously very questionable taste in Cork.

Didn't even make the long list.

That's what I get for being fool enough to be giving money away to that class of carry on.

Big big boo.

Fuck it.

Let's look at pretty pictures.

By Gary Coyle

Ivan Mulcahy and myself flanked by Brian Barrington and Fiona Cummins
Vanessa and Fiona. Two dames.

Friday, April 26, 2013

The Circus Has Hit Town




The book is now on sale.

For a mere fiver you will have the pleasure of the sound of neo-liberals being kicked repeatedly in the bollix.
You'll see light shone on sinister vulture capitalist scum.
You'll see bullies furious at incoming derision.
You will see fear and fun in a handful of words
No respect for the cowards and fools who let a gang of crack heads beggar the country for longer than the life expectancy of a home built under their alleged command.
You will hear hatred for those who betrayed this country.
You will hear a little laughter.
And a big scream on behalf of the 90%  whose lives hopes and futures have all been Priory Hall-ed.
From hunger strike to Priory Hall there'll be screams against our joke republicans.
There are no republicans.
We merely have sociopaths with varying degrees of house training.
And we got blueshirts of all hues.
We got anti abortion moralists desperate to keep their supply of unloved unwanted and unwatched kids.
We got the Iona Al Qaeda. Our own wannabe UKIP sinister bigots.
We got the Christo Taliban.
We got Ganley and his Teahadi crew.

WE GOT THEM ALL IN OUR SIGHTS.

AND WE GIVE THEM THE KICKING THEY DESERVE

This is a

ROAR

A roar to ensure the culprits - the 1% with its 9% lackies - do not get a moments' sleep for the rest of their despicable lives.

To those who robbed our dreams, a promise:
We will not let you sleep.

And count yourself lucky it is only words that are being thrown you.

Cos I see this poet fella has other ideas.


Burn down Tom’s cabin.
Throw away the trinkets.
We’re looking for scalps.
White man.
Red man.
Black man.
Yellow man.
Someone
Has.
Gotta.
Pay.


On the subject of pay, the book in all its mischief and wonder is yours for a mere fiver.
So please drop by and pick up a copy

http://itsapoeticalworld.com/book-shop/#!/~/category/id=4966008&offset=0&sort=normal

Do that now.

You'll enjoy it.

Kevin

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

WORDS ON MARGARET THATCHER





Woke up and there they were
Words
Wiggly weasely wondrous words
All with loads to say
Never a dull moment with words
Never stuck for a curse with words
Never short of a laugh with words
Fall in love with words
Let the hate roll with words
Whisper sweet nothing with words
When the show gets really desperate, pray with words
Apologise for all you have done wrong with words
Forgive me forgive me forgive me
Forgive me with words.
But we won't forgive her with words.
We'll tell that dead Baroness all she did wrong.
With words.
She'll get
No no no
Eulogy out of me.
With words.
Instead I'll go write a song.
With words.
I'll tramp the dirt down.
Just like Elvis said.
With words.
I'll tell fawning funeral generals they are just
Puffed up poppycocks.
With words.
I'll reopen the pits.
With words.
I'll give everyone their job back.
With words.
I'll refuse to take part in her dog eat dog world.
With words.
Darwinian silverback penny-pinched primate.
That woman's an ape.
May she be for hunting.
By Hutu Interahamwe. 
And I mean it
I Mean It With Words

GLORIOUS WORDS

Society's 
YEP
I'll say it again
Society's
Affable Handymen

Words

And all that you are deaf to

Maggie

Words

Sunday, April 7, 2013

LOVELY FIRST REVIEWS - And a little rant on how we got here

I Love The Internet.
The book, or little circus as I prefer to see it, has just got its isbn number so I am told it is officially published.
So within a few days it should be uploaded for sale here
Was looking to see if I could get some nice promo blurb to advertise the book with.
Anyhow a review link had been sent to author Alan Glynn.
And just got this delightful account in return.

"In this collection, poet Kevin Barrington sings, serenades (chants, screeches, parps). He’s like a hungry, distracted coyote roaming the digital plains – with one eye on the circling herd of bullies, despots, third-raters and poltroons, and the other on that gorgeous sunset over there."

And then this rather lovely account from film director Lenny Abrahamson

"Kevin Barrington is an original to the seat of his pants, and the sound of his passionate, fearless, percussive voice and the acuity and verve of the mind that drives it are present in every morsel of this wonderful collection."

 Then we also just got a really nice one from Martina Devlin:

"What a vibrant, memorable, original collection. And what a gifted turn of of phrase Kevin has. Colour bursts from his words and does cartwheels all over the poems. He veers from satirical to playful to hard-hitting to tongue-in-cheek. There's rage in his work; and humanity, too - presumably the humanity is motivated by the anger."

So I reckon the promotional dictates of commerce have been met. And to seek any more advance press could be seen as a craven search for adulation.

So perhaps it is time to get on with the show.

And let's see if we can pitch poetry into the face of a recession.

I'll let you know when they have uploaded the shop window.



All not bad though given that the show only sprang into being in December.
Once delightful Declan Ganley started throwing his legal/financial ire at me.

Then came the offer of publishing the book as a gesture of support.

What can you say to such an offer?

Ah the fun of those witch burning winter nights.

And out of darkness.

We got delight.


Friday, March 29, 2013

What chance of a sign of the spring?


                               The wind is blowing from the east.
                                      And it's fierce cold.

The Canal In March by 'Nice Eye' Conor Ferguson




She said with determined death defying determination
to the equally defiant grey male beside.
Flashing silver educated lucky in their decent Terenure stride.
And good on them.

But nobody fed me
My defiance today.
And listen here.
I got the Solzhenitsyn shivers.
Genuinely. 
I got that Stalin dread.
I got Dostoevsky horrors.
Man.
I got Gogols in my head.

It's so fucking Siberian.
God damn it.
It's so Artic around here.
I could really do with some sunshine.
Sted of this blood soaked below zero lithuathian nationalist affair.

Sweet mother of jesus
Sweet mother of jesus
I'm the last to talk of the weather.
But what chance of a sign of the spring?
What chance of a sign of the spring?

Monday, March 18, 2013

Genocide Is My Man United


To Mark Shanley


I asked was asked the other day
What sport I followed
'Genocide'
I replied.
Cos genocide is my Manchester United.
It just is.
Hey.
I love the pin ups.
I love the stars.
Idi Amin Benjamin Netanyahu Pol Pot Saddam Hussein George Bush
You name them.
And what's that geezer from central Africa?
Yep him.
The French cannibal scandal one.

All the boys.
Always the boys.
We do such great extremism.
Us boys.

We'll have none of those women and their difference.
We don't do difference.
You hear me?
We achieve goals.
Scorched earth pitches.
Teenage catatonia.
Babies aged by disbelief.
That's genocide for you.


Genocide is my Man United.

Friday, March 15, 2013

THOSE WOMEN SEARCHING FOR CATS, THEY TERRIFY ME

(Respect to T.S.)


Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty


Kitty Cats by Gary Coyle


I  wish all the women in their 40s
Would just find their lost cats.
Please
I wish all the cats would just go home.
Please

I wish they would take down all the signs

LOST - Scaredy Cat

LOST - Kitty Cat

Seriously cats
Just go home.
Cos your owners really scare me.
And the ghosts of long gone young girls
They laugh at me.
"Grey" they call me.

And I hear them snigger as I try to scale a wall.

Stop it
Stop it
Stop it

Unleash the dogs.
Send the cats home.
Bring back the girls.
I preferred the girls.
I really did.
I really preferred them
To the worried look
Of women alone in their 40s
Looking for their lost cats.

Don't they know how much it scares me
That worried look
Of women alone in their 40s
Looking for lost cats

Meeow.
Meeow.
Meeow.


Tuesday, March 12, 2013

A GENTLEMAN IN GREECE ASKED THAT I CONVEY THIS

There is a man in Greece whom I have never met.
He goes by the name Ephilant.
He appears to run a homeless hostel.
A family.
And a vivid account of the ongoing Greek tragedy.
He's a one man full blown chorus.
You can tune into his alert observations and cries of alive anger  www.politicalworld.org
In addition to all that Ephilant has also spent the last two months tirelessly bringing my book alive with both artistic flair and technical awe.
And then in addition to that addition, there's his work constructing the online publishing house and shop which will carry and sell the book all as part of the www.politicalworld.org.
The fact that this is taking place as the Oireachtas Committee on Social Media sits to debate legislation while old media shrieks hysteria is not coincidental

Anyhow while Ephilant and PW gaffer Cactus Flower have been running the construction site, I have been sending out the odd preview copy to people looking for advice and reaction.

One such preview just led to the offer of my first gig at the Dalkey Book festival.
Dalkey seemed to want me to present a show, something that reflected the spectacle of the book.
A reading alone might not achieve that.

So I sent an e-mail out to all those involved in the book asking if anyone had any ideas or issues that merited highlighting and that I could, within reason, work into the show.

There were already some obvious candidates like my dear friend Frank Rynne and his Sufi sonic subversives The Master Musicians of Joujouka
All rich and ripe material for yarn.

Similarly for colour, there's Herman Vanaerschot - who designed the book - and his own stunning Joujouka photography Joujouka Some Stones
This magical photo essay of the annual festival in the village has already picked up over 12,000 views.
But it merits many thousand more.

I was wondering if there was anything similar I could do for any of those who worked on the book  whom I have never met.

Anyhow I cut the crap with Ephilant.

I asked him directly was there anything he wanted me to convey

This is what I got back.

I assured him I would do my best.



Ok, a yarn you will have, it is called Greece, a drama in far too many acts. People, corruption, victims and more victims. The stench of money, power and greed that manages to mask the stench of the poverty, hunger, illness and self-inflicted deaths it generates. The stench of the politics of finance trampling all over a good natured people simply asking for their basic right to live a somewhat enjoyable life. The faceless fascist lurking in dark corners, back stabbing in the name of culture and purity. Greece 2013. We have turned the corner!
A new born baby wondering why it is once again born in a disused stable. Will they ever get it right?
Manolis, his wife and 3 children, wrongly convicted by anonymous faces far away to a life in a Hiace van at the side of the road. 83 year old Eleanna walking the fields again, like she did when she was little. Maybe she will find some food today. If she doesn’t,  she goes hungry. Like she did when she was a child
And beautiful Eleni, such a bright future, destroyed by invisible hands pulling invisible strings. Yesterday she was reading psychology at Iraklio university, today, she doesn’t even own her body any more. 20 € a poke, 25  if you like living dangerously. Too many Elenis these days. None of them have any tears left.
I meet them every day, after they realize the money  made with their body isn’t theirs but must be handed over to some pimp, like our country was handed over to the neo liberal pimps so that they can try out their newest bonga bonga gig.
They queue for food, wearing bad make-up and torn clothes. They are the men, women and children of Greece, pimped out by their government  at the behest of the anonymous puppet masters. Prostituted to appease the God of More. I meet them every day, after they have been used, abused and spat out by the priests of the Church of More. And in the morning, the nightmare starts all over again.
And I count my blessings for the privilege given of meeting these people who despite their daily torment still manage a smile and a friendly word. Who will forgo their portion because there isn’t enough for the new arrivals. For Eleni who once again got bruised and battered last night but enquires if the finger I cut this morning is ok. For Manolis who is happy because his epileptic boy only had 2 seizures yesterday, despite him not being able to buy the medicine he needs. For Eleanna who shuffles through the door with the bunch of Rocula she cut this morning, which is far too much for her, but the poor can eat it. For my children who help in the food kitchen and learn the lesson of life from the masters in front of them. And for Greece being what it is,  and despite everything, being the only place I really want to be.